


Fire of life

by yixuan



Series: This is not a love song [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cultural Differences, Elven immortality, From Sex to Love, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, Other, all men must die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:51:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yixuan/pseuds/yixuan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every spring, the blossoms opened, but before he could even find time to admire them, they were already falling down to the ground to give way to fruits and leaves that would equally die and fall in autumn to be covered by the icy-cold covers of snow. This all happened within the blink of an eye, as did the lives of Men. Before he could regret their passing, they had already been forgotten by their own kin, so after some time he figured it wasn’t even worth remembering them at all. They were a feeble race, after all, as alluring and exciting as they could be sometimes.<br/>(...)<br/>He had always known that it wouldn’t be wise to feel something like love for a man; that didn’t apply for lust and attraction, however. </p><p> </p><p>It takes Thranduil some time to come to terms with what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire of life

**Author's Note:**

> This story is un-betaed and English isn't my mothertongue, so it's probably not a good idea to publish it, but please bear with me. If anybody is willing to help me with my language for future stories or even this one, you would be more than welcome :). 
> 
> Also, I have no idea when Thranduil's wife exactly died, I was just guessing. Does anybody know or remember it from the movie?

Men had always been strange and alien creatures to Thranduil, son of Oropher. Fascinating in some fashion, but strange nevertheless. It was as if they had to force all the energy and passion of an Elf’s long lifespan into these few and hopeless years that were given to them. Thranduil had never thought it an injustice; those were the rules of the world, whoever had made them. He had seen those Men bursting with anger, wrath, love, lust, passion and patriotism; he had seen them fight, trade, feast, love and die; had seen them rushing through their years and then wither like the spring blossoms. He had learned to understand their ways, their thoughts, their manners; they even had been crucial to his plans sometimes.

He had joined the Last Alliance of Elves and Men with his father and might even have died at their side, like Oropher had. Sometimes the grief of his father’s passing still consumed him; death wasn’t a natural part of an Elf’s life as it was for Men. Their fleeting lives, he thought sometimes, must be so much more to them, knowing they could end at any time. Days and nights must be so much more alive, pulsing with joy and pain and fire like he couldn’t even imagine. Each minute a gift, a treasure worth much more than any of the jewels hidden beneath the Lonely Mountain.

Over the years, he felt, he had become one with the forest he was ruling. He felt like one of these trees, old as time itself. He had been born during the First Age, lived through the Second One, and had seen the beginning of the Third. Little acorns had grown into huge oak trees, rivers had changed their beds. Every spring, the blossoms opened, but before he could even find time to admire them, they were already falling down to the ground to give way to fruits and leaves that would equally die and fall in autumn to be covered by the icy-cold covers of snow. This all happened within the blink of an eye, as did the lives of Men. Before he could regret their passing, they had already been forgotten by their own kin, so after some time he figured it wasn’t even worth remembering them at all. They were a feeble race, after all, as alluring and exciting as they could be sometimes.

He had never thought it an injustice; those were the rules of the world.

He had always understood that it wouldn’t be wise to feel something like love for a man; that didn’t apply for lust and attraction, however.

He had known great kings, and he knew a special man when he saw one. The Dragonslayer might have been a simple bargeman until now, but he stood proud and strong, the human fire racing more fiercely through his blood than any of the other’s. He had the eyes of a king, a leader at least, and Thranduil held his breath for a moment when he saw him, rising high above him on his elk. Men had a way of always showing their feelings brightly on their faces, and Thranduil saw relief, gratitude and joy in the bargeman’s features.

“You saved us! I do not know how to thank you.”

How easily Men took a simple favor for kindness. Any Elf would have understood the gesture. I give something to you; you give something to me in return. Did he seriously think he was here out of mere altruism?

“Your gratitude is misplaced. I did not come on your behalf. I came to reclaim something of mine.”

He saw the truth hit the bowman’s mind and some obvious disappointment appeared on his face. Maybe his trust in the simple goodness of the world had been disappointed. When someone had lived as long as Thranduil had, they knew that things didn’t just come to you. You had to earn every single bit on your own, even if you were a king. He wanted to make the Man understand. But he felt this one had the gift of a great leader and he would learn by himself, should the time come. Should he live to see the day of his own coronation.

Thranduil, however, suddenly felt life coursing through his veins as he hadn’t in centuries; in those long, unchanging centuries beneath the great and lush trees of the Greenwood. Life, he suddenly realized, had been dripping past him like the water from leaves after the rain, and now is was thundering through him like the great river Anduin after a downpour.

…

He took the bowman to his bed that very night.

It was easy, almost too easy. A little bit of wine, the fear of a battle ahead, the loneliness and desperation of a widower and the aftershock of killing and ancient evil such as Smaug. He had learned his name by now-- Bard the bargeman, even though Thranduil had decided not to call him that anymore. Part of it was the simple fact that his pride didn’t allow him to negotiate with a simple bargeman, rather than a king in the making.

And to sleep with a king in the making was beyond anything he had previously known.

Thranduil had long ago discovered that Men, fading and short-lived as they might be, possessed an extraordinary vigor when it came to carnal pleasures. Maybe, he had mused, it was because they had so much less time to reproduce. However, the bowman’s rough hands on his skin made his breath hitch and his body shake like a leaf in the storm, unlike anything he had experienced in his long, endless life. Bard’s hot, fiery kisses seemed to shatter him more than the fire of the great serpents he had faced, but at the same time their gentleness made them less frightening and terrible.

He managed to keep his composure, of course. Even in the throes of passion he managed to stay in control, ordering the man around like the Elvenking he was. He told him to get on his knees, to take him into his mouth; told him to wrap his legs around him and, in the end, when he was frantically thrusting and felt this previously unknown ecstasy overwhelming him, told him to _come for me, come for me, my wonderful one._

It was on the eve of the great battle and he half expected to never see the Man again. And at some point, before he fell asleep with his nose buried in the bowman’s dark hair, he discovered that the thought filled him with regret.

…

Fate, however, proved him wrong. Suddenly, after all the blood-shedding, after slaughtering all those dreadful creatures, after all his doubts and fears and memories, after sending away his son and realizing what love could do and what pain it could cause, the future King of Dale stood before him. He was dirty and damp with sweat and blood, but he lived with the same flame of life blazing bright inside of him.

“My Lord Thranduil.” He nodded with a serious and contemplating expression and Thranduil nodded as well.

“King Bard of Dale.”

Heads turned and the Elvenking realized that by calling him that in front of all the people had sealed his fate. He would be crowned and he would rule, his life would burn and flare and then flicker and die like a candle in the wind. And he, Thranduil, son of Oropher, would still outlive him. He had seen his father and his wife leave this world; even Elves could die, he knew that. But with Men it was different; death was looming over their every step, ever gesture, every action they took. All he could take from this Man, this _king,_ was what his body could give him during the short period of time that remained.

The people of Laketown got on their knees and hailed their new leader. Thranduil stood by and watched and tried to tell himself that for them this was a beginning and not an end, but his body shivered ever so slightly.

…

The coronation was a humble one, but joyous nevertheless. There were feasts in the Greenwood all the time, but they were a mere pastime, the same procedure over and over again, the wine, the music, the laughter, even the coupling afterwards. The people of Dale, however, seemed to have gone a long time without a proper celebration; they enjoyed the festivity with an honest excitement and the shared hope of better days to come. Bard himself seemed tense when the crown was placed on his head, but the clapping and cheering made him smile. Thranduil caught his eyes and raised his cup. He would learn to be at ease with his power and responsibility, but he would not enjoy it. That was something, as Thranduil had learned, that all great leaders of Men had in common. If he didn't die of any sickness or another ailment that often befell his race, he would, maybe, have enough time to figure that out by himself.

All was well. What came to do he had done, he could return home now.

But could he?

Again, the newly crowned king’s eyes met his and he decided to stay just a while longer.

They stayed awake almost the whole night, singing, dancing, drinking and eating, until finally the last of Dale’s people had passed out drunk on one of the wooden tables under the pale starlight. It was still winter, but they had held the feast outside under the clear sky. So much had to be rebuilt; there was no hall in the whole city that could hold everyone present.

Thranduil had forced himself to stay awake, as had Bard, even though his children had long ago gone to bed. They had been talking for some time, sipping wine between deep and meaningful looks and now Thranduil decided he wanted to claim what he had sacrificed his sleep for.

“So,” he said quietly.

“So.”

Bard met his gaze and held it and Thranduil thought he would melt at the heat in it. Lovemaking was something natural to the Elves; they did it without the unnecessary prelude that Men seemed to require. But he knew Bard was one of them and he needed to approach him slowly, carefully.

“Have you enjoyed your coronation, King Bard?”

The Man shrugged. “It was great to see the people celebrating after all this hardship. It was great to see Men and Elves as friends, celebrating side by side. But if you asked me if I enjoyed having a crown placed on my head—I didn’t. It feels heavy and a great burden.”

“You will get used to it”.

Suddenly Bard’s gaze flickered and he turned his head away.

“All these people… I don’t know if I can be the king they need. If I can restore Dale to its former greatness. They have so much hope and I’m afraid I will not live up to their expectations.”

“These are the questions any leader faces, King Bard. I was crowned king because my father was king before me; you, however, were chosen by your people. And they have chosen you for a reason, I believe.”

Bard stayed silent and stared into the darkness. And suddenly, when their eyes met again, Thranduil experienced something he had never felt before. Time was stretching into eternity, this very moment felt like an entire year, an entire lifetime. Bard’s brown, deep eyes seemed to watch him forever, they would never falter, never _die._

“My lord,” the man finally spoke. “The night before the battle…”

“Did you enjoy it?”

The king hesitated. “I did”, he said in the end.

“But what?”

“My Lord Thranduil, I was merely wondering... you live amongst these eternal and beautiful creatures, beautiful and majestic, elegant, forever young, radiant and alluring. You’re one of them yourself. You can enjoy their company any day, any night. Why share the bed with a simple bargeman whose hair is already beginning to turn gray?”

Thranduil silently shook his head. “You’re not a bargeman anymore. You’re a king now.”

There was no evading Bard’s eyes. “You’re not answering my question.”

So that was how he thought? Could he not see the beauty that was unique to his race, this passionate, short-lived beauty, this life rushing through them within decades when it was only dripping through the Elves for thousands of years?

“You’re beautiful and alluring to me, bowman. Your people… they know life in every breath, every look, and every kiss. We Elves live so long we don’t even know we exist sometimes.”

“We must seem so weak to you. We perish after such a short time.”

Thranduil placed his cup of wine on the table and took his hand.

“So why not cherish a beautiful flower when I know it will wither before the winter ends?”

There were no more words after that, only soft panting, the sound of quiet kisses and a faint whispering of foreign words. Thranduil couldn’t keep them back, his native tongue spilling out of him when he felt the simple, honest pleasure that no one but the bargeman could give him, never again. He led the new king into his tent and took him apart, drinking in his desire and his heat. He feasted on his fervor, his lust, on the veiled eyes that rolled back in his head when he reached the peak of pleasure, rough hands digging into Thranduil’s back, leaving marks for days to come.

They stayed still for a while after their breathing had slowed down; the Elven king buried deep inside his human counterpart, his lips against the soft skin at his neck. Thranduil had lain with many Elves and even with some Men, but he couldn’t remember a heat like this, nor this new thirst that just didn’t seem to leave him.

He took his pleasure from Bard’s body many more times this night, never getting enough. When dawn came he finally managed to drift into a restless sleep and decided that leaving Dale would be the first thing he did after waking up.

…

He continued to visit Dale, though; often, far too often.

Every time he promised himself that this would be the last time, unless diplomacy and courtesy demanded it. But these personal visits had to stop.

They never did, though.

Every time he found himself enjoying the new king’s company more and more. Every time they embraced each other, it was more intense, more vigorous, more intimate. He told himself he was merely satisfying the natural crave that nature bestowed upon him, and sometimes it worked. Sometimes he almost believed that he was only taking what the man offered to him and that he would find a replacement once this was over.

_Once this was over._

He shuddered at the thought because this was where he never let his thoughts wander. What could end their unusual union he placed out of his mind and enjoyed the simple joy of Bard’s friendship.

There were questions, of course, that he couldn’t evade.

Like in this night, a clouded and rainy one, with the soft sound of raindrops coming from outside. They were lying on Bard’s wide bed, still covered with sweat, their bodies not ready to leave each other quite yet, touching each other again and again. Fingers were brushing against hipbones, lips resting against the soft skin of the Elven throat, legs entangling and dark hair mingling with fair, white strands.

“My king” Thranduil found himself whispering against Bards skin. “The nights in the Greenwood were getting lonely and cold. How fortunate diplomacy called me here.”

Indeed, Bard had ordered him to Dale on some pretense, had claimed to have plans of discussing their wine trade in the future or something of the kind that could mean anything. They had both known its true meaning, at least.

Bard’s look got serious and his finger caressed the ageless skin on Thranduil’s cheeks.

“You know you don’t need an excuse to come here, my lord Thranduil. You’re welcome any time.”

“I come here whenever I have time to spare.”

“Which is usually only when I ask you to.”

Thranduil realized that it was true. He had come to avoid visits to Dale and had never asked Bard to be his guest in the Greenwood. Whenever he was at home in his realm, he tried to keep the king of Dale out of his mind, pretending he was still the supreme and untouched ruler who did not care for the race of Men and its fate. But whenever Bard summoned him, he would readily oblige, call his servants to saddle his elk and ride to Dale with a thundering heart.

His eyes lingered on the beautiful face before him, dark and strong like everything about the Man. Faint lines were already appearing and carving their way through his features and Thranduil knew, and oh, how he feared, what would happen one day, when these lines would claim his face.

“A king has his duties, as you should know. We might have defeated evil for now, but it is still lurking. The Greenwood is infested with something, the spiders crawling around and other, bodiless things of evil that we have to keep at bay. My kingdom needs me. Whenever you send for me, I follow your call. Isn’t that enough for you?”

He read the man’s expression and realized that maybe it wasn’t.

“Maybe sometimes I wish for you to come to me on your own accord.” He whispered.

Thranduil tried to ignore the ache in his chest at those words.

“What would you have us do, my Lord Bard? Tell the world that we share a bed? Wed me like a maid? We both know what we are, what is expected of us. We are fortunate enough to have this. It has to be enough.”

“You said that you get lonely sometimes.”

“Being a king means to be lonely. You can take a wife, father more children, secure your line. You are still young and proud, and many a maid would die to wed you. I know I might seem alluring to you, but you cannot spend your life, short as it might be, chasing a dream from the woods and yearning for what will never be. I enjoy your company, Bard, and what you give to me. But there are things we cannot control. We are too different. You are a man and you’re living your life with passion and commitment. I, however, am of Elven blood, and I have a different burden to bear. We are like water and oil, like fire and ice, like night and day. We can share a space but we will never truly be one.”

He felt Bard tremble next to him and couldn’t bear to look at him. It was the truth. He had told himself exactly that many times, wandering around in his great halls, pondering on this strange phenomena, of _them together,_ of _him, Thranduil,_ with a _Man._

“So this is all we’re doing?” he heard Bard’s faltering voice from the darkness after all touches and caresses had ceased. “ _Sharing a space_?”

Thranduil felt a great sadness rise in his chest that he couldn’t explain, and suddenly everything felt shallow. The soft sounds of rain that he had thought beautiful before seemed nothing more but the mocking of an unchanging world with rules that even he, the mighty king of the Greenwood, could not alter.

“You should rest, King Bard”, he said softly and tried not to make it sound harsh. “I will ride on the morrow.”

He didn’t find rest, though, as Thranduil could tell, since he couldn’t find a single minute of sleep himself.

…

He had told the truth to Bard, there was much work to do in the Greenwood. Thranduil spent his time securing the borders, placing more soldiers, corresponding with Elrond, Galadriel and the other Elven rulers about how to proceed. Evil, he felt, wasn’t sleeping, and it was only a matter of time until it would come out and raise its claim on Middle Earth again.

However, he couldn’t bring himself to make that his main worry. Whenever he had an idle minute, he would see Bard’s hurt face and hear his broken voice. He trembled with conflicting feelings that he couldn’t explain, that he didn’t _know_ despite his thousands of years. Bard was only a Man, he had only seen a few decades; he couldn’t _understand_ what they would have to endure. This wasn’t a road he was willing to take; this wasn’t a pain he was willing to face.

But after some nights of tossing and turning, of nagging thoughts and deep and lonely desperation, he called his scribe and dictated a letter, inviting Bard, king of Dale, to a great banquet in his kingly halls.

…

King Bard arrived with a small entourage only a few days later. He had sent a messenger, but Thranduil’s spies had been following the people of Dale since the moment when they had left the city and made sure to arrive shortly before them, so Thranduil was prepared. He sat his in throne with the haughtiest and most regal expression he could muster, while his palms felt sweaty and his heart was pondering like mad. During such tense moments he most missed Legolas. He had usually been the one to calm him down, but at the same time he was also glad he didn’t have to face his son in this state.

Bard and his people entered and bowed deeply until Thranduil told them to rise and met the king’s eyes for the first time. There was defiance in them, and, as he was surprised to discover, pain. He refused to believe that this was due to their last conversation. Couldn’t the Man understand that he was asking for something impossible?

“I’m honored by your presence, King Bard.”

“I was desperate for a trip to the woods, to get out of the shadow of the Lonely Mountain for some time. How fortunate diplomacy called me here.”

Thranduil raised his eyebrows at his own words from another mouth.

“I hope you are aware that I don’t wish to merely discuss our trade, King Bard. You’ve become a dear friend and I wished to entertain you for once in my kingly halls.”

“We are honored by your invitation, my Lord Thranduil. However, time is scarce and there is still much work to be done in Dale. Reconstruction is going well, but we need every man.”

“And material, I might think. Which is something the Greenwood could offer you.”

Bard bowed again and Thranduil suspected it could be to avoid his look. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“You shall dine with me and we will talk about everything.”

“However, I wish to return home to Dale with my men before nightfall.”

Thranduil rose from his throne and began to slowly walk down the steps.

“I was rather hoping you would spend the night here. It will be late and the road is dangerous.”

“You could send some of your guards to get us back safely.”

Thranduil had reached the bottom of the steps and was facing Bard directly. He couldn’t help but notice the deep shadows under his eyes, like he hadn’t been able to sleep for nights. Suddenly he caught himself imagining himself, kissing away those shadows, soothing his exhaustion with ancient Elven magic, cradling Bard in his arms until he fell asleep and conjuring pleasant dreams that would carry him into the next day…

He shook his head slightly to rid himself of the sudden illusion.

“You will not work on your city during the night, will you? You can stay here, rest, and no harm shall come to you. Tomorrow you can ride right after the sun rises and you won’t miss any of the work. Does that sound agreeable to you, my Lord?”

Bard opened his mouth but it became obvious that he didn’t have an argument left. He nodded reluctantly.

“Well, then. We shall stay and enjoy your hospitality.”

Thranduil smiled. “So you shall.”

…

The diner was enjoyable but Thranduil felt nervous. He wanted to entertain Bard, wanted to please him and make him enjoy himself. Suddenly the wine didn’t taste good enough, the food seemed a bit tasteless and the music—oh, that certainly wasn’t their best harpist. Bard, though, however tense and stern in the beginning, slowly opened up. He was smiling more and his smile became more genuine, he didn’t pull back his hand when Thranduil gently pressed it and he didn’t seem to mind the seemingly accidental touches. It had to be obvious how the Elvenking was courting him; everybody would surely see, Bard’s people and his own as well, but he couldn’t seem to care. It was too good to have Bard back in his presence and he couldn’t bring himself to think about all the implications. The spring night was lovely, the air was fresher than usual and his spirits were high.

They did talk about politics, but mostly there was pleasant talk and those easy, but no less deep conversations he always enjoyed with the King of Dale. When most of the company had retired, he excused himself for the night, not without whispering: “I expect you in my chambers” before he left. He didn’t look back to read Bard’s expression.

The king obliged, still. There was a soft knock on Thranduil’s door after what had felt like hours, but had in fact only been minutes. He had ordered his guards to let Bard pass; and when Thranduil opened the door, only clad in his nightgown, the bowman stood before him, slightly out of breath.

“You wanted to see me, Lord Thranduil?”

The Elvenking wasted no time; he took Bard by his wrists and gently pulled him into his chambers before closing the door behind him. He was rewarded only with a frown.

“To see you? Yes, I did want that. However, that doesn’t fully satisfy my needs, however lovely you might be.”

Bard stepped back slightly and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“I’m not sure whether it would be advisable.”

Thranduil closed the distance immediately and laid his hands around Bard’s face, trying to pull him close. “Oh I think it would greatly enhance our negotiations… don’t you agree?”

Before he could claim the king’s lips with his own, however, Bard pulled free and stepped back again. His breath was coming fast and he looked like a deer contemplating his hunter.

“My Lord, with all due respect… I didn’t come for that, not this time.”

“What did you come for, then, Bard of Dale?” Thranduil had regained his usual aloof expression and was pacing slowly from one side of his chamber to the other. He was eyeing the bowman, his dark complexion and beautiful face. Something inside him was yearning, something was screaming to claim the Man, to make him his.

“I came to do business.”

Thranduil paused and scrutinized him for a long moment.

“Do you not desire me, King Bard?” He finally asked, not even lowering his eyes. Bard, however, did exactly that.

“I do.” He replied after a moment. “But I came to realize we don’t have the same boundaries between mere carnal pleasure and something… more. My body doesn’t work without my mind. For me, passion consists of the body and the mind, also. How can I share your bed while shutting out my soul?”

“Is that the way of Men?”

“It is my way.”

Bard’s gaze was steady and hard. He stood before the Elf, proud like a king, and Thranduil realized that something had changed. That the Man before him wasn’t the honest, insecure bargeman any more that he had seduced and taken to his bed some time ago. He was a king now, and he would stand his ground, he would make his own rules.

He sighed and lowered his head.

“You ask for all of this when all _I_ ask for is time. Can you understand the dimension of the life of an Elf? I will try to explain it to you. My wife died eight hundred years past. I met you just before the Battle of the Five Armies mere two years ago. In the life of a Man, it would have been only about one year since I buried my beloved and we would know each other for mere minutes. I’ve grown very fond of you, my dear bowman; however, there is a boundary I’m not willing to cross. You can only be part of my world for the blink of an eye, if we are fortunate. Do you expect me to sacrifice everything for such a short moment? You will one day be gone, but I’ll still be here to pick up the pieces.”

Bard stayed silent, but somehow, inside of him, he seemed to begin to understand.

Thranduil paused and sat down on an elaborate chair at the side of his chamber. He didn’t know why he was telling Bard all of this, why he was making excuses. As a king, he didn’t often need to explain himself and ask for favors, he just ordered and got what he wanted. Now, he realized, he was pleading for something, for the Man’s understanding.

“I understand that such are the ways of the Elves.” Bard finally began to speak. “However, I’m a Man and I don’t have many years to waste, to explore my superficial pleasures and fancies until I grow bored or realize I’m not bold enough to pursue them in earnest. I want to love, strong and deep and _fast.”_

Thranduil couldn’t bear to look at him. He was waiting for the final blow, for the bowman to tell him that it was all over and to leave him behind in his dusky realm.

“But I’ve grown very fond of you too, Lord Thranduil. And even though I don’t like your conditions… I think I will accept them. I cannot explain it myself, but somehow the thought of not being with you is worse than being with you in this shallow manner.”

_This shallow manner._

Thranduil raised his head, not believing his ears. Did he not realize, this Man, that there was nothing shallow about their being together? That is was growing deeper every time, and that this depth was exactly what he feared?

He didn’t want to talk anymore, he couldn’t. The sigh he let out sounded too relieved, but he didn’t care. In two short strides he was standing before Bard, devouring his mouth, waiting for him to finally respond. It seemed like ages until the King of Dale wrapped his arms around him in the end, but it was bliss to Thranduil, son of Oropher, sweet music after a sad day of silence. He pulled the bowman to his broad bed and softly laid him down; he undressed him slowly and with an excitement he had never felt before. His skin was sweet and tasted of honest, hard labor; his lips were full and inviting and still had a trace of wine on them.

“Lord Bard,” he whispered while kissing his throat, sucking at his skin. “ _King_ Bard.”

He tasted the king’s pleasure in every kiss, felt it in their heated embrace, and when they were finally naked and shining with sweat under the soft candlelight, Thranduil did something he had never done with Bard before. He pushed him down on his back and straddled his hips, gliding down on his hot and hardened flesh, crying out with the sheer and unexpected delight of it.

Bard’s hands gripped his hips as he pushed in deeper and the Elvenking shut his eyes and threw his head back. He felt Bard’s finger tangling with his long hair behind his back and he couldn’t recall a moment of purer perfection, not after his sweet wife had gone and left him alone in this ruthless world. Part of him wanted to scream, to cry, to forbid Bard to ever leave; instead his kissed his lips and muttered: “You truly have become a king, Bard of Dale.”

…

 

The years went by with their usual swiftness. Dale thrived under King Bard’s clever ruling, though he never came to fully accept the power given to him. He never abused it, either. He and his children never lived in a palace or anything of the kind; they inhabited a solid, if lavishly decorated house and enjoyed simple luxuries, but never gave in to vanity or arrogance.

Sigrid married a wealthy merchant and soon their first child was born. Bard was bursting with pride, gently holding the infant and kissing its tiny head. Bain grew tall and strong and it soon became obvious that one day he would one day follow his father on the throne and become the new king of Dale. Tilda never married, but became an excellent archer, taught by her father and their Elven friends.

The flourishing trade with the Mirkwood Elves contributed to the wealth of Dale; the woods, however, grew darker and more dangerous, so that Men avoided venturing there. They came to call the forest “Mirkwood” instead of “Greenwood” and rumor spread that an evil malice that was growing there.

During the years, the Elvenking came and went. The people of the city had grown accustomed to his presence and that of his guards. Elven visitors were no rarity in the taverns and guesthouses of Dale, sharing their songs and tales from times long past. Their king usually spent his nights in the royal dwellings. The people of Dale hardly gossiped about their own king, even though he never remarried and never laid eyes upon even the most beautiful of maids. He was a respectable man, and he led their city well, and that was all the needed.

…

Thranduil, in the meantime, discovered that their bond hadn’t been weakened by the passage of time. He had come to terms with needing the King of Dale and he didn’t question this need anymore. Somehow, the years didn’t pass as quickly as he had expected. Bard did get older, his hair was mostly grey by now, but his body was still strong and healthy, and even though the lines on his face were digging deeper, this only seemed to enhance his beauty and to express his noble character. He stood tall and straight and showed no sign of a nearing death. They had spent many years together and Thranduil always wondered why they had seemed so much longer than he was used to. Maybe because this human life held so much meaning for him, because he lived through it himself, sharing the passion, the joy, the sorrows.

One day, the king of Mirkwood returned from a patrol in the woods when he found a messenger from Dale waiting for him.

“What is it?” he asked, dismounting from his elk.

The man bowed deeply, he seemed overly nervous.

“The King of Dale sends me. He is severely ill and would like to see you, my Lord Thranduil.”

Thranduil got back on his elk right away, without even pausing to eat. Exhaustion was slowing him down, but he reached Dale before nightfall.

Bard was lying on his bed, the bed they had shared so many nights. His children were gathered around him with faces strained with fear. Sigrid’s young daughter was sitting on her lap, playing with her mother’s hair.

The king was barely conscious; his eyes were flickering open once and again, but clouded with fever. Thranduil sat down by his side, took his hand and kissed his forehead. He was burning.

“What happened?” He whispered, turning to the children who weren’t children anymore.

“He got injured on his leg, practicing archery in the woods some days ago. The wound festered, even though we called a healer right away.”

Thranduil lifted the cover and the gruesome sight made him close his eyes. The wound was deep and oozing with foul-smelling liquids, the flesh already beginning to turn black. His eyes widened in horror.

“Men and their incompetent healers.” He cursed. “Out, all of you!”

His children seemed hesitant, even when another Elf entered the chamber.

“This is Túon, my personal healer.” Thranduil explained. “If he cannot save him, nobody can. You called me too late. I could have easily saved him before, but once death has settled too deep in a body, there is no way to loosen its grip. Now go and pray, for there is nothing else you can do.”

Tilda was the first one to rise. She had always been the most resolute of her siblings.

“I will leave and trust you for once, King Thranduil.” She said. “But know that if you’re depriving me of the last remaining hours of my father, I shall never forgive you.”

With this she turned and left, soon followed by the others. Thranduil remained, shaken, and looked at his healer in distress.

Túon placed his hands on the wound and Bard cried out; even in his feverish state he still seemed to feel the pain. The healer raised his head and looked at Thranduil in question.

“My lord, I will do what I can, but I suggest you come to terms with the thought that we might lose him.”

Thranduil nodded and the sharp pain in his chest made him sink down on one of the chairs still standing around the bed.

“Do what you can then, by all means.”

…

It was the darkest hour of all his life, and he had seen many of them. It all blurred, Túons whispered words of Elven magic, Bard's painful moans and ragged breathing, the smell of death and sickness and the pure and sweet scent of the medicine the healer poured into his mouth and on his wound. Thranduil couldn’t bear to look at him, but he couldn’t turn away at the same time.

_I suggest you come to terms with the thought that we might lose him._

He had tried it all, had tried to shut his heart and keep away from this man, a simple bargeman at first, then a dragonslayer and, finally, a king. But it had been hard, too hard, and, without realizing, he had given in long ago. Bard held his heart in his hands already, and if he should die, he would take a part of it with him.

Those were the rules of the world as well.

He had expected death at some point, but not so soon. He had thought there were many years yet to come, many moments for them to share. He had hoped to see Bard grow old and to accompany him on his slow journey to the end of his life. However, he had always pushed the thought of Bard’s imminent death away and suddenly it was there, looming over him like a fire-breathing serpent.

He suddenly remembered the words he had spoken a long time ago, in another world that seemed long gone. Tauriel had stood before him with fierce desperation, urging him to stay and fight when all he had wanted was to leave that forsaken battle.

“The dwarves will be slaughtered.” She had said, standing in his way.

His reply felt like bitter ash on his tongue now.

“Yes, they will die. Today, tomorrow, one year hence, a hundred years from now, what does it matter? They are mortal.”

As were Men. As was Bard.

“You think your life is worth more than theirs when there is no love in it. There is no love in you.”

Her answer still thundered in his ears.

_Oh, but there is, Tauriel. There is._

…

The night went by and Bard didn’t die. Thranduil felt utterly exhausted, as if he had performed the magic himself. He looked at the healer, taking Bard’s hand and immediately felt the fever had retreated, leaving him weak and still vulnerable, but out of death’s grip—for now. He felt life trickle through the king’s veins; not strong, but a steady stream nonetheless.

Túon collected his equipment and wiped his forehead.

“I still can’t believe it myself. He is a Man, but a tough one. I managed to extract the poison from his body. The wound will close and heal, if I treat it daily and make sure it doesn’t fester again.” He sighed deeply. “Men are hard to heal. I will rest, if my Lord allows it.”

Thranduil only nodded. “You may go. Know that your services will be rewarded. Send in the children on your way out.”

The healer nodded and left the room. Only seconds later, Tilda was the first one to rush in again, followed by her siblings.

There were tears in her eyes when she looked at her father in his deep, peaceful sleep and listened to his even breathing.

“He will live, won’t he?”

When Thranduil nodded, she threw her arms around the Elvenking, and, after realizing what she was doing, released him in an instant.

“You wonderful… wonderful… Elf.”

He couldn’t help but smile.

…

The king of Dale was weak for days to come, but strength slowly returned to him. It was a few days later, when they were sitting on Bard’s balcony, their backs to the Lonely Mountain, looking down on the plains below, that he first raised the subject.

“You saved my life.” He said, sipping a strong liquid made out of healing herbs that Túon had prepared.

“I didn’t. I merely prolonged it for a while.”

Bard smiled weakly. “That’s what us Men call saving a life.”

“In that case, yes, I did save your life.”

Bard looked at him gently.

“Thank you.”

It was one of those rare occasions when he couldn’t read the king’s mind. He took his hand and felt the newly returning strength and vigor, which made him smile.

“I am glad we will share more years, my king.”

Bard bit his lip and lowered his eyes. “Oh yes. Share a space, you meant to say.”

Thranduil looked at him in astonishment. It had been years ago and he himself had all but forgotten those words he had once spoken. Part of him wanted to repeat them, to protect himself and retreat to his remote realm again where he could ignore the thundering in his chest and the bitter-sweet pain he felt whenever he looked at the Man at his side.

But then he remembered the night about a week ago, when he had feared to lose him too soon, and he knew it was too late. There was no going back now; there had been no going back since he had first laid eyes upon the bowman all those years ago. At his side, he had first felt what it was like to be human—to know life in every breath, every look, in every kiss. To look and marvel at every spring blossom, even though it would wither and fall at some point. To take his eyes away from the eternal trees and let them wander to the small, restless flowers and leaves, and the renewing life that came and went after every season.

It would hurt, eventually, but that was life also.

So he didn’t let go of Bard’s hand.

“Despite my misplaced words, spoken in pride and fear, you should have noticed we have been sharing so much more, Lord Bard.” He said softly. “I have given you so much more than I ever gave to a Man before and I shall continue to give you everything as long as I can. I shall watch over your family, your children, your children’s children and all of your descendants. I shall forever cherish your memory and take it with me to the Undying Lands, should I ever set sail and leave Middle Earth.”

Bard looked at him in disbelief. “All these years, my Lord, I thought…”

Thranduil forced himself to smile even though he was still trembling at the force of his own words.

“The fact that we have seen so many thousands of years sometimes makes us confuse time with wisdom. I always thought I understood everything. I thought myself a king and able to rule. I thought I was the master of everything until I realized I couldn’t even rule my own heart.”

He looked at Bard; a long, contemplating look, to see if I understood his meaning.

“I was… overwhelmed. To love with such a passion… that is something usually only Men do. The Elves love in a gentle, steady way; our love develops during centuries, not within some short years. I wasn’t prepared for this… but I guess to love a Man one must choose the Men’s way of love.”

The King of Dale gave him a long, tender look and again Thranduil experienced how a moment could stretch into eternity, never seeming to end.

“I wish we could do it the Elven way, my Lord Thranduil. To start our love slowly, steadily, and see where it takes us. However, you are right. I wasn’t given as many years as you. But I mean to use them, still. ”

Thranduil held his breath at the fragile moment of absolute beauty, Bard’s hand in his and his eyes caught in a gaze so intense he almost forgot to blink.

“Let’s not waste any more time, Bard of Dale”, he whispered, scared to destroy anything of this perfection by speaking too loud.

They didn’t speak while the sun set and bathed the City of Dale in its soft light, and Thranduil thought, that maybe, he had been speeding through his whole, eternal life, only to reach this point and to enjoy this simple and perfect moment of happiness. And that, by riding out to reclaim the White Gems of Lasgalen, he had found a jewel far more precious than any gem he had ever possessed.


End file.
